Rough Days
by St. Harridan
Summary: Tig wants to suck Chibs dry, stalking him all the way from the bathroom to the bedroom to get what he wants.


"Chiiibs." Tig swings the door open, so hard that it slams back against the wall. "Oops." He takes a swig from the whiskey bottle in his hand and kicks the door shut, looking around the room through slightly blurred eyes. "Chibs, the fuck are you? I wanna suck your dick right now."

The door in the corner is slightly open, a line of white light streaming in through the small slit. Tig can hear water running, accompanying a sound that seems to Tig like some sort of frantic brushing. Curiosity seizing him, he steps towards the bathroom and hesitantly pokes his head in.

Upon setting his gaze on his target, Tig's eyes light up and he leaps into the bathroom, eliciting a startled gasp from Chibs. Chibs stumbles back, choking on his toothpaste and struggling to give Tig the finger while beating his chest with a fist.

Tig barks out a laugh and pats his back, increasing his strength with each hit. When they get too rough, when he's practically smacking the breath out of Chibs, Chibs has to shove him away before he ends up spitting his toothpaste out. He's never one to waste such necessities.

"Idiot," Chibs mutters as he sticks the toothbrush back into his mouth, clumsily swinging a foot at Tig who dodges with ease. Tig tips his head back and drains the bottle of whiskey, nearly choking on it as he tries to control his laughter. Once he's thrown the bottle into the litter bin in the corner, Tig leans back against the wall and folds his arms across his chest. He watches as Chibs brushes his teeth, unable to hide the smile from his face as he trails his eyes down the other man's frame. Though not as muscular as his own body, Tig can never suppress the desire that shoots through his system following each glance he takes at Chibs. Whether he's naked or fully clothed doesn't matter, he always – _always_ – manages to turn Tig on. And most of the time he isn't even trying.

Tig looks up when he hears a _clink _of some sort, only to find that Chibs is done, having placed his toothbrush back into the cup by the sink, and is now staring at his reflection in the mirror. There's that sort of smirk playing on his lips, the type that shows he knows just what Tig is thinking, and it's only then that Tig realizes he's been chewing on his bottom lip all this while.

He catches himself, stops, a silent curse left unsaid on the tip of his tongue for allowing his guard to fall. As always, Chibs manages to throw him off guard without even lifting a finger. The man was just brushing his teeth – Tig gives himself a mental kick in the stomach. _Idiot. _Still, Tig thinks that Chibs can't blame him – it's Chibs' fault to begin with in the first place, after all.

"What d'ye want?" Chibs nods, wiping the water from his hands on the towel wrapped around his waist. Inevitably, Tig's eyes follow them, but before he can lose himself once again, he tears his gaze away and forces them onto Chibs' face. He gives a shrug, thumbed his nose, unable to believe that he's actually embarrassed to be standing before a half-naked Chibs. When it dawns on Chibs, Tig feels a chill at the way his smirk widens. "Wanna suck me, eh?"

Tig is quiet for a while, wishing that he still has a bottle of whiskey to flush away the dirty thoughts of Chibs from his mind. But then again, he has to admit that he loves the prospect of Chibs bending over before him, Tig thrusting his hips back and forth without cease and feeling Chibs tightening around him with each pull and push.

Tig shivers and fakes a cough into his fist.

"I wanna suck you dry," he says, shrugging. "But since you're busy, I can just…y'know-"

"Yeah, ye should leave." Chibs waves a hand, turning back towards the mirror to grab the razor. Tig's pretty sure that it's his, the only razor that he has that he keeps around Chibs' room just in case, but he holds his tongue. Instead, he stands frozen to the spot, watching as Chibs slides the blade over his jaw ever so slowly, so carefully, very much in contrast to the way he handles Tig in bed.

Tig swallows as he thinks about it, Chibs' hands all over his body, nails raking flesh, teeth nipping everywhere and leaving bruises that won't heal until after days past.

"Can't a man have some privacy here?" Chibs cast an annoyed sidelong glance at Tig, and Tig catches himself again.

"The hell d'you mean?" Tig raises an eyebrow in question. "What, you want me to leave? Don't want to have your dick sucked? Are you turnin' into some kinda prude, Chibs?" He darts around the man so that he's right before him and plants his hands on the edge of the countertop, bringing his face so close to Chibs that their noses are merely an inch apart, Tig's tobacco-scented breath intermingling with that of Chibs' fresh mint. "Or is it that you don't want me anymore?"

"What in fuck's name are ye talkin' 'bout?" Chibs shoots him a look that lets Tig know that he's on the verge of crossing Chibs' patience. Tig gets that a lot, but most of the time he ignores it and goes on to push him past his limits. He does it for fun. Sometimes it gets out of hand, and though it often ends up with them bending over with laughter and maybe, if Tig gets lucky and if Chibs is in the mood, a good hard fuck, it can also lead to a time of bitter silence between them.

Tig doesn't know where this particular argument – if it can even be called one since it's pretty one-sided on his part, Chibs ignoring him for all he's worth – Tig wants to see where he can take it. He reaches for Chibs' ass, fingers now itching to touch him, to leave scratches and crescent-shaped marks with his jagged-edged nails in Chibs' flesh, but Chibs smacks his hand away, catching Tig by surprise. Despite that aggressive response though, he doesn't look any different than a nonchalant fool shaving his beard.

"You're not really shaving, are you?" Tig says quietly, breaking the sudden silence that hangs between them, and Tig hopes that it's not one of those silences where they won't be talking to each other for the rest of the week.

Before he can even register the motion, Chibs has flung the razor to his chest, and a small gasp leaves him as he feels the pain shoot through his ribcage.

"What the fuck, Chibs?"

Chibs shrugs and turns on his heel to walk out of the bathroom.

"Now ye got yer stuff back, so go on out. Stop bein' such a baby, I ain't yer goddamn mother."

The yellow lighting overhead casts a faint glow onto Chibs' back, deepening shadows and defining his flesh, and Tig can't help but stop short to gaze at the deep contours of muscle along his back. The way they flex beneath his skin holds Tig in a stupor, as if he's been drinking too much whiskey that he can't tell right from wrong. His fingers twitch once more, only more violently this time, as he tries to hold back the urge to reach out and hold onto Chibs' shoulders. He's always fond of the way Chibs takes up the whole room just by being in there, as if the room's built just for him. Maybe it's the way he carries himself with such surety that draws Tig in, the pride of a Scotsman an undeniable rush through his veins.

"Fuckin' prude," Tig hisses, snapping himself out of his trance. Chibs just threw his razor back at him for no apparent reason and he still has the nerve to admire him from afar – Tig feels like banging his head to the wall and taking Chibs down with him right then and there. What the fuck is he trying to prove anyway?

Tig drops the razor on the bed and plops down, glaring at Chibs as he moves about the room without even the slightest acknowledgement of Tig. Once more, the silence engulfs them. A silence wherein one can even hear a pin drop to the carpeted floor, the only sounds coming from the soft pads of Chibs' feet as he goes back and forth from the wardrobe to the bathroom.

"You lookin' for somethin'?" Tig finally speaks up, then catches sight of Chibs' somewhat trademark accessory on the bedside table. "Your shades or somethin'?"

"Oh, they're there, eh?" Chibs takes a glance back at the bed and, without even an utter of thanks or any such recognition, he looks away again. "Thought I'd left them somewhere down in the pub."

"No, you didn't. It's sittin' right there, waitin' for you." Tig doesn't even know why he bothers stating such an obvious fact, but the only thing – the only _person _– that he can see "sitting and waiting" for nobody but Chibs is he. And he hates himself for it. "What the fuck is with you, Chibs? Somethin' wrong?" He doesn't bet on Chibs telling him the truth, not after that sudden fallout they had in the bathroom the second Tig stepped in, but there's still a chance.

But Tig's hopes are washed down the drain as Chibs shrugs again, his back towards Tig so that Tig can't see his expression. He wants so much to, so that he'll be able to understand just what he's feeling. Tig knows that Chibs is a rather complex man, and till now, throughout the many years that they've been friends, the years that they've been associated with each other whether it be in the matters of the club or in the bedroom, Tig still can't really say that he's unravelled and seen every corner of Chibs' heart.

And he hates that fact.

"I wanna suck your dick right now, Chibs," Tig says, allowing his mask to fall, letting the desire burn free within his striking blue eyes. "Leave your clothes in the cupboard and come here." But in truth, Tig wants to know more about Chibs, wants to be the one – the _only one_ – to dig deep into the man's soul, break his spirit. Those whores that he often sleeps with, the blondes, the brunettes, the occasional black woman – Tig knows none of their names. He could have fucked the same girl twice and he wouldn't be able to recognize her upon the second encounter.

But Chibs – Tig still isn't sure just when he started paying attention to his needs, his desires. But he just does, and he can't help it no matter how hard he tries _not_ to care.

It's stupid, the way Chibs is able to do this to him. Sometimes he hates Chibs for it, other times he outright adores him.

"Chibs," Tig says, suppressing the whine from his voice. Damn it, Tig doesn't whine. He's the Sergeant-at-Arms – he doesn't _whine_.

With an inward sigh, he rises to his feet and crosses the room in quick strides to where Chibs is standing before the wardrobe, pulling an old faded T-shirt on. Without even the slightest bit of hesitation, Tig wraps his arms around Chibs' waist and leans his head against his back. "Talk to me," he murmurs into Chibs' ear, hot breath falling onto the side of his neck, ruffling the short greying strands of his sideburns. "Talk to me, fuck you."

Fear starts nagging at the back of his heart as Tig feels Chibs stiffen under his touch. Despite that, unable to control himself, Tig slips his hands under Chibs' shirt, caressing his skin and swallowing at the heat of his flesh. Chibs flinches a little at the feel of Tig's cold palms, but he makes no move to pull away, which brings Tig's hopes slowly to the surface.

"Did I fuck somethin' up, Chibs?" Tig's right hand passes over his abdomen, his chest. He can feel the marks and scars etched in his skin, mementos of battles endured and survived, reminders of where he fucked up. The scars are rough against his fingertips, raised lines of skin with a slightly harder texture than the unblemished areas. Tig rubs a nipple, rolling the soft yet pert bit of flesh between his fingers. Chibs swallows, squirming in his grasp, uncomfortable yet pleasured at the same time.

"Y'know I do a lot of stupid shit that I lose track. You gotta tell me what I did wrong or you'll be like talkin' to a messed up idiot."

Chibs lets slip a laugh at that and leans back against Tig, his muscles loosening as he gets comfortable within that familiar embrace.

"Ye already _are_ a messed up idiot, Tiggy."

Tig tightens his hold a tad bit too protectively, fingers grasping Chibs' T-shirt, pressing his nose to the side of Chibs' neck. The scent of lavender is thin, mixed with the smell of tobacco and alcohol, of the smoke from bikes and leather. It floats about Chibs' frame, some sort of aura that draws Tig in. He breathes deeply, smiling contentedly, lips curling against Chibs' skin as his hands trail down Chibs' abdomen, coming to rest at the top of the towel wrapped around his waist.

"The fuck are you still doin' with this old shit?" Tig murmurs into Chibs' ear, grinning when he feels a slight shiver rattle through Chibs. "Thought I got you some new towels last Christmas? Or did you throw 'em out for Piney?"

"Idiot." Chibs scoffs, patting Tig's hands as they move to pull the towel off, but then he steps away and out of Tig's arms. He pushes the wardrobe door, allowing it to swing slowly to a quiet close, and approaches the bed. The towel still wrapped around him, Chibs plops down and buries his face in the quilts. Tig raises an eyebrow in puzzlement, standing to the side for a moment, still admiring the way Chibs' muscles flex under his tanned skin, and then sits on the bed beside Chibs' frame.

"Next time, Tiggy," says Chibs, his voice slightly muffled by the quilts. "Next time I'll let ye suck me dry."

Tig feels the sides of his mouth curl in an amused smile, and he ruffles Chibs' hair, a tint of affection all the more obvious in the slow way he runs his fingers through Chibs' greying strands.

"Rough day, huh?"

"Ye ain't got a clue, boy."

Tig does know, really. Being one of Clay's right-hand men, he knows just what a "rough day" actually means. A bloody brawl, a series of murders – those are only the tips of the iceberg. He's the one who has to deal with all the bullshit, the nitty-gritty which involves murders. If Clay wants something done fast, he's always there – especially when it has to do with murder.

Tig lies down beside Chibs and drapes an arm over his back, resting his face so close to his that their noses are almost touching, separated by a distance much smaller than before, when they were engaged in a confrontation in the bathroom. Chibs' eyes are closed, as if he's already in slumber, but when Tig leans over and absently presses his lips to his eyelids, Chibs gives a start and stares at him in confusion. Tig all but grins, the sort of lazy smile that he's infamous for.

"Right, suckin' dicks can wait." Tig presses his nose to Chibs' shoulder, trailing a hand down to loosen the towel. He pulls it out from under Chibs, ignoring the annoyed growl he receives in turn, and throws it to the floor. His fingers fleet across Chibs' thigh and up his back, sliding along the contours of flesh and muscle, of joints and the tiny rings that make up his spine.

"But you're gonna owe me a hell of a lot the next time I get hold of you, Chibs." Tig allows his eyelids to drift to a close, the last thing he sees being the amused smirk of his lover. "I ain't gonna let you off so easily."


End file.
